Shooting the Rift - eARC (17 page)

“Wouldn’t work,” Mallow said. “You’d need to do that every time, and the word would get out. Besides, our customs inspectors are corrupt, not unpatriotic. Taking a backhander’s one thing, endangering the security of the system quite another.”

“I suppose so,” I conceded, collecting up the drinks. I’d done what I could.

“It could still be useful,” Mallow said, although I suspected that was more to spare my feelings than because it was true. “Building up patterns, that kind of thing. I’ll pass it along, and let Commander Worricker decide.” His tail flicked out, opening the door for me. “Mind how you go.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In which a spontaneous celebration has unforeseen consequences.

Mallow was right: I got no thanks from Ellie when I delivered the drinks, although Remington did glance up from their negotiations just long enough to nod an acknowledgement. On the plus side, she seemed too engrossed to tell me to piss off again, so I settled on an overstuffed sofa in the corner and tried to copy Dad’s knack of becoming invisible.

Very little of the negotiation was going on verbally: their ‘spheres were deeply meshed, and exchanging data at an astonishing rate. I stuck out a cautious tendril, meshing in through Remington’s ‘sphere, and was encouraged by a reasonably welcoming greeting.

Just watch. Don’t distract me.
Not wanting to break his concentration with a reply, I did as I was instructed, seeing a bewildering array of schedules, bills of lading, and cost breakdowns skimming back and forth, being constantly amended, along with curt comments like
Too high
, or
Not fast enough
, occasionally supplemented with an ironic laugh, or a verbal “You’re joking, right?”

In truth, neither of them looked particularly amused; I was reminded of the faces of my fellow competitors when only a couple of points separated us on the leader board, and everything depended on the final round.

With nothing useful to contribute, I suppose it was inevitable that I started to poke around the local datascape, discovering almost at once that Ellie was connected to one of the secure nodes I’d detected at the reception desk; which, in turn, meant that I had access to it too, through the overlap of her ‘sphere with Remington’s. Too good a chance not to take advantage of, I thought, marshalling my sneakware once again. This was going to be tricky: companies with that much money to spend, and protect, wouldn’t stint on security—not if they meant to keep it. But, before long, I’d seen enough to be sure of her encryption key, and swapped enough datanomes to be reasonably certain that my probe would pass for something she’d authorized.

Of course, reasonably certain isn’t quite the same thing as absolutely certain, so I have to admit to holding my breath a little as I infiltrated it into the datastream: but no alarms went off, no roadblocks descended, and no virulent antibodies swarmed to puree my synapses. Great. I now had a few seconds before I had to withdraw, or run the risk of discovery. Which, in data time, was more than long enough to take a leisurely look round, and find something really interesting.

They’ve been offered a premium,
I told Remington.
Five per cent extra if they can shift the entire consignment before the end of the month.
Which was only a few days away. And, if I was reading the manifests right, it was touch and go whether they’d make it. For an extra quarter of a million Talents, I was pretty sure Farland was willing to cut a few corners.

To his credit, Remington didn’t waste any time asking how I knew, or whether I was sure. He just sighed heavily, and stood.

“I’m sorry, Ellie, but the margins are just too tight on this one. You’ll have to get somebody else.” He turned to me, as though suddenly remembering my presence. “Come on, Si.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Ellie said, outwardly cool, as she stood too, and extended a hand. Only the minutest tremor of her voice betrayed her agitation. “Is there anything that might tempt you to reconsider?”

“An extra percentage point. Across the board.” Remington was suddenly clipped and decisive. “You can afford that.” And a lot more besides, with a quarter of a million in the balance.

“Can we?” Ellie was stonewalling, clearly wondering what he’d heard, and where he’d heard it from.

Remington nodded. “Word is, you’re even hiring Freebooters to keep things moving.” Ellie didn’t quite flinch, but it was a close run thing. “If there’s that much at stake, you can pay full Guild rates, no haggling, plus a bonus for my crew. Otherwise we’re done.”

“Half a percent.” She didn’t even bother to deny it. “Still a good earner for you.”

“Not as good as three quarters.”

“Three quarters, then.” A faint half smile, almost instantly suppressed, although I’m sure Remington noticed it too. She thought she’d got one over on us.

“Why didn’t you press for the one percent?” I asked, as we broke free of the synthetic forest at last and I found myself standing once again on honest pavement which didn’t feel the need to masquerade as anything other than what it really was. “It would still have been a good deal for her.”

“Three quarters is fine,” Remington told me. “And she thinks she’s played us. Means she won’t think too much about how we knew as much as we did. Can you get back into that system again?”

“Probably,” I said, although in truth I had absolutely no doubt of it.

Remington smiled. “Then that’s got to be worth a quarter percent.”

I thought about it. Over the long term, the extra leverage the knowledge I could extract for him during negotiations, and the concessions we’d be able to get from exploiting it, would be worth far more than the extra money we could have made on this contract. “Easily,” I agreed. Then something else occurred to me. I’d been so busy ferreting out Farland’s secrets, I had no idea where the cargo we’d just secured was bound for. “Where are we off to, anyway?”

“Freedom,” Remington said casually.

I knew the name, of course. The nearest major system in the League of Democracies. Commercial hub, and a naval dockyard.

I was going right to the heart of the enemy.

After a coup like that, the only possible thing to do was celebrate it. So instead of hailing a cab we walked to the pleasure district Clio had taken me to the night before, in search of a drink or two; and that, I told myself, was all I’d have, a single dose of Sowerby’s hangover cure being more than enough for one week.

The whole area seemed different in daylight, less garish and more tawdry at the same time, and curiously subdued, as though suffering from a hangover itself. The diners and bars were still doing a brisk trade, workers from the landing grounds and warehouses for the most part, although a few of the more salubrious had clerks among their clientele. Not to mention the inevitable starfarers, doggedly attempting to prolong a night out as far as possible into the following day, or freshly arrived on planet and desperate to squander their landing pay as soon as they could.

To my quiet relief most of the dollymops had disappeared, no doubt as a result of their nocturnal lifestyle, and the bordellos were shuttered and silent; although I was pretty sure any of my fellow starfarers in search of negotiable affection would still be unlikely to leave the quarter disappointed.

Most of the food stalls were still in business, however, and finding my appetite returning I exchanged a few coins for a sausage in a bun; it briefly crossed my mind to ask what kind of animal had provided the filling, but after my encounter with the Skyhaven pie merchant I was by no means sure that I wanted to know.

“You’re braver than you look,” Remington commented, his tone sufficiently dry to leave me wondering for a moment if he was serious.

I chewed and swallowed. “I’ve tasted worse,” I said, which was true enough; though not all that often.

“When?” Remington sounded skeptical.

“This morning,” I replied, without hesitation. “Sarah’s hangover cure.” I paused for a moment, then curiosity got the better of me. “What is it, anyway?”

“Beats me.” The skipper shrugged. “Something she picked up on one of the League worlds. Technically it’s a living organism.” For a moment the sausage I’d just eaten considered completing the round trip, then settled down again. Remington studied my face with interest. “Sort of a slime mould,” he added.

“Seems like a remarkably useful one,” I said casually. Once you’ve spent a childhood playing competitive gross-out with Tinkie, not a lot gets to you.

If Remington was at all bemused or disappointed at my lack of a reaction, he didn’t show it. “Guess that’s why somebody made it,” he said. “Just keep throwing nutrient in the tank, and you get all you can eat. She tells me it’s good for clearing out the recycling pipes too.”

“I can believe that,” I said, having held wrenches for her while the system was serviced. A faintly disquieting thought occurred to me. “She doesn’t put it back in the tank afterwards, does she?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Now it was Remington’s turn to look a little disconcerted. “Nothing she does surprises me any more.” Then he smiled. “But in a good way.”

We turned a corner, and I found myself on a street I recognized. Over there was where the cab had dropped us off, this was the bar Clio had been intending to visit, and over there—

“Bugger.” I couldn’t help glancing at the bar we’d ended up in, where I’d got into an argument with the owner; and, sure enough, there he was, sweeping up what looked like a small heap of broken glass. He must have felt my eyes on him, because he glanced up and glared at me, his pupils twin gun muzzles blasting hatred and resentment in my direction. “It’s the tosser from last night.”

“Where?” Remington followed my gaze, smiled, and waved a cheery greeting. The bartender went back inside, and slammed the door, on which a hand-scrawled notice announced
Closed for renovation
. Remington read it, and his smile spread. “Oh dear. Looks like your party got a bit out of hand.”

“Maybe.” I furrowed my forehead with the effort to remember. “It’s all a bit blurred, to be honest. But everyone seemed to be having a good time.” At least they still were when Clio and I had left. Okay, it had been a bit crowded, and maybe one or two things got broken in the crush, but that was hardly my fault.

“I thought Clio liked this one.” Remington indicated the bar we’d originally been making for.

“It was full of Freebooters,” I explained.

“Good call.” He nodded thoughtfully, a faint edge of sarcasm entering his voice. “We wouldn’t want you getting into any trouble, now, would we?”

Though trouble was precisely what we found ourselves in an hour or so later, when we left the hostelry we’d chosen. I could see why Clio liked it; the decor was clean and sparse, vaguely reminiscent of being shipboard, but with a few softer touches, like the brightly patterned abstract tapestries on the walls, which made it feel welcoming. It had been almost deserted, the only other patrons being a ship’s crew with Guild patches enjoying a final drink before lifting, and who left soon after we arrived. Remington and I had settled at a table near the big picture window, through which we could keep a casual eye on the bustle of the street, as watching other people scurrying around while you’re skiving makes putting your own feet up even more enjoyable, and kept the serving drone busy conveying several more drinks over to our corner than the two I’d promised myself before coming in. Despite that, though, it seemed Sowerby’s pet slime mould was still doing its thing in the depths of my stomach, and I’d still felt completely sober by the time we’d left. Which was rather disappointing, really.

Remington, too, seemed completely unaffected by the whisky he’d drunk, although whether he’d taken a dose of the mould before setting out from the
Stacked Deck
, or was just well practiced at holding his liquor, I had no idea.

“Great.” He punted a small piece of data over to my ‘sphere; the estimated arrival time of the cab he’d just ordered. “Ten minutes.” Which didn’t seem all that long to me, but I suppose after leaving the bar he felt he was back on the clock, and ought to be using his time more productively. “I forgot about the shift change.” Now he came to mention it, there were noticeably more people on the street than there had been a short while before, either tired and weary-looking, or trotting along purposefully, intent on arriving at a specific place at a specific time.

“Can we meet it halfway?” I asked: the sled’s AI would be homing in on Remington’s neuroware by now, and would find us wherever he was, so there was no point in hanging around here if we didn’t have to.

“Might as well,” he agreed, after a moment’s thought. It would take us a little further away from the
Stacked Deck
initially, but not so far as to make any appreciable difference to the cab’s travel time, and it felt like we’d be doing something instead of just wasting our time.

“This way.” Remington set off confidently, and I trailed after him. “I know a short cut.”

“Lucky for us,” I said sarcastically, as something unpleasant squished beneath my boot. The skipper’s short cut turned out to be an alleyway, carpeted with garbage in varying stages of decomposition, faced by the rear walls of assorted businesses on one side, and the looming concrete cliff of a warehouse on the other. Something squeaked, and scuttled away from my footfalls. “Fragrant little spot.”

“Apart from the wildlife,” Remington said. For a moment I thought he was referring to the rodent I’d just disturbed: then I noticed the fellow leaning against the wall of the warehouse ahead of us. He was trying to look casual, but there was a tenseness about him which belied his relaxed posture; I had no doubt at all he was waiting for us.

“Two more behind,” Remington said, having come to the same conclusion. “Don’t look back.”

I forestalled the instinctive reaction just in time. “How do you know?”

“Let’s just say it’s not the first time I’ve taken a short cut I probably shouldn’t have,” Remington said. “Can you tell who they are?”

I expanded my ‘sphere, picking up the residual echoes of neuroware in the buildings around us, and the faint buzzing of the vehicle nodes in the surrounding streets, but apart from Remington and myself, I couldn’t find any traces of ‘ware anywhere in the alley. “They’re not meshed,” I said. “No ‘ware.” An uncomfortable thought struck me. “Think they’re Leaguers?”

“Maybe. Or locals. Lot of them follow the League line on neuroware.” Which, to be honest, I’d never quite got my head around. How being able to mesh was supposed to erode your humanity, or even your soul according to the real crackpots, was beyond me. “Why would any Leaguers have it in for you? You’re a Guilder.”

“Not according to the wanker last night,” I said. “My accent was a bit too Commonwealth for him.” And the penny dropped. He must have seen where we’d gone, and got some of his mates over to lay in wait for us. This was supposed to be payback time.